


Don't Settle For Anything Less

by cx_shhhh



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Music, Alternate Universe - Teachers, Art, Classical Music, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-23
Updated: 2019-08-24
Packaged: 2020-09-24 11:20:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 17,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20357626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cx_shhhh/pseuds/cx_shhhh
Summary: Enjolras is an emotionally stunted orchestra director whose infamous mood ranges from angry to a little less angry. Until a certain interesting art teacher, that is...





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Here's another one. Many thanks to Staircase Handle once again, and this time, my knowledge is sufficient enough. It's roughly based on my own life experiences, only not quite so intense. I play two instruments classically and know a great lot about many others. Also, _music theory_. It's like a third language to me. Please, bear with me.

_“Don’t only practice your art, but force your way into its secrets.” - Beethoven_

There’s a school, a very nice school whose principal raised it from the ground while he was on the run. His faculty is relatively young, all just getting out of college themselves and in desperate need of jobs. So, anyone who is remotely familiar with the Musain Academy has definitely heard of its infamous fine arts department. Everyone who plays an instrument, paints, acts, etc. are some of the wildest students who have ever gone through the school. Wild as in extremely talented, but also lacking much discipline outside of their respective organizations. And perhaps the wildest, and the most serious of them all would be their infamous teachers. If this story were a documentary, the camera would pan over to the orchestra room, where Mr. Enjolras is conducting his students in a Dvořák symphony, to the black box, where Mr. Courfeyrac is directing his aspiring young actors in a Shakespearean comedy, and across to many others, hard at work. Finally, the camera would pan over to the art classrooms, where Mr. Feuilly teaches sculpting and set construction and Mr. Grantaire teaches painting.

Anybody who knows these teachers knows that they support their students through and through. However, one thing that these students lack is a thorough appreciation for _the classics_. Now, zoom in on Enjolras for a second. At first glance, an outsider would think, _wow, what a handsome man_. Sadly, that’s not exactly the best approach to someone’s character. Once they get to know him, Enjolras is a passionate man with a short temper. Those who speak to him more than once might consider him to be an elitist of sorts, thriving off classical concerts and shunning any kind of pop music or dare it be said, _rap_. Oh, yes. He despises anything with less than five unique chords and a monotonous beat. This man might have every right to hate it though, the fantastic musician and conductor that he is. His students admire him for that fact, but fear him for his personality. In Musain Academy, he conducts the most talented chamber and symphony orchestras, as if he could settle for anything less.

Lacking an appreciation for the arts is a problem in this modern society, and of course, Enjolras has to find a way to solve it. Here’s how he plans on doing so…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s my [Tumblr](http://cx-shhhh.tumblr.com/)...


	2. Medieval

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras is very angry.

_“The trouble with music appreciation in general is that people are taught to have too much respect for music. They should be taught to love it instead.” - Stravinsky_

A lovely January morning is greeted by Enjolras storming the hallways of the fine arts building, a flurry of wild blonde curls and steaming coffee in a reusable mug. Yes, he plans on obtaining Dudamel-worthy hair at the age of twenty-five. Back to his angry walking. It’s a Monday and Enjolras definitely hadn’t gotten enough sleep during winter break, hence the scalding coffee which he quickly chugs, ignoring the burn in his throat. Approaching the orchestra room, he takes a deep breath and steadies himself for the inevitable questions from his students. Enjolras practically throws the heavy soundproof door open, wincing a little when it slams against the wall. 

Suddenly, the classroom falls into silence. Enjolras must have overestimated his students’ work ethic as no questions are asked about his tardiness and not a single instrument is unpacked. Enjolras feels his eyebrows draw closer and closer in a scowl before he barks out, “You all better explain to me why not a single instrument is out and tuned. I apologize for being late, but it would be a _dream come true_ to be greeted by everyone ready to play for once.”

A collective “sorry, Mr. E” sounds through the room. Enjolras leans against his office door, pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation. He barely notices as his assistant orchestra director, Jehan, closes the door to the harp room and pats Enjolras carefully on the back. Jehan, or “Mr. Prouvaire” as the kids so lovingly call him, is like the calm eye to Enjolras’s angry hurricane. He just has this stereotypical harpist aura and is often extremely soft-spoken, until he has to repeat himself more than twice. Enjolras is grateful for Jehan, especially on horrible days like these. He forces his face into a lightly kinder expression (read: a softer glare), walks over to his podium, and taps his baton against his stand. “We’re going to play a solid three octave C-sharp major scale to warm up. I want a rich and continuous tone, no vibrato, and clean intonation.”

Finally, _finally_, the bell dismissing school for the day rings, and Enjolras slumps in his comfortable rolly chair. He spins absentmindedly a few times before almost falling off when someone appears at the door. “Hi, Courf. What do you want?”

Courfeyrac flashes Enjolras a shit-eating grin. “Not much, actually. I’d like my theatre kids to stop being overly melodramatic, just the right amount, y’know?”

“I really don’t, but that’s obviously not what you’re here for.”

Courfeyrac continues as if Enjolras hadn’t said anything. “So remember a few weeks ago when we approached Principal Valjean about a showcase? Well, guess what got approved!”

Enjolras rolls his eyes and provides a sarcastic reply, “Let me guess, you and ’Ferre are allowed to make your relationship public?”

He watches in slight amusement as Courfeyrac turns bright red and ducks away as a hand pushes at Enjolras’s chair. “No, silly, Valjean wants us to do the showcase! So from now until March, we need to get all the teachers in the department on board to make this the most badass thing the general public has ever witnessed. And I know for a fact that marching season is over, so Joly will definitely let you take some of his students to play in a full orchestra.”

“Right, yeah. Please tell me you’re planning on putting on _Twelfth Night_. There’s no better way to get our point across than with Shakespeare and cross-dressing.”

“Of course! In fact, I already have students in mind for every role. Lots of fake mustaches and wigs! But let’s not forget to include our favorite art teacher in our crusade.”

“Hold on a minute. You want Mr. Grantaire, who doesn’t ever leave his hole of a classroom, to join our cause?”

Courfeyrac pinches the bridge of his nose. “Enjy, you’ve never actually had a decent conversation with him, have you?”

Enjolras is about to start gesticulating wildly before Courfeyrac cuts him off and continues speaking. “I know he’s a bit cynical, but _all the good artists are depressed_, blah blah blah.”

“He insulted everything for which I stand right in my face while comparing me to a nude statue of some Greek god.”

“Pfft, haha. So let me get this straight, R made a jab toward your beloved music? _And_ told you that your fine ass is like marble? So, what did you do? Whack him in the face with your cello bow?”

Enjolras sniffs, “No, I merely told him that if we ever crossed paths again, I would shove it up his own ass.”

Courfeyrac stares at him, wide-eyed, before his mouth starts twitching and he starts doubling up with laughter. In between giggles, he wheezes, “No way… you didn’t.”

“You’re right, I actually didn’t. Would’ve been fun to see his expression, though,” Enjolras snorts before joining Courfeyrac and cracking up. When both teachers finally calm down, Courfeyrac says, “Wow, I was wondering where you’d been. Seems like forever since you decided that humor was overrated and dedicated yourself to being hell bent on working yourself to death.”

Enjolras huffs and elbows Courfeyrac in the ribs, causing him to shriek, “That tickles!”

After fooling around for another half-hour, Enjolras stands up and gathers his stuff. On his way out, he nods to Jehan, who gives him a hesitant smile and a wave. Across the hallway from the orchestra room, Combeferre is waiting outside of his own classroom, wiping his glasses. Once Enjolras and Courfeyrac approach, Combeferre greets Courfeyrac with a kiss, which Enjolras has to turn away from. “Cool, now that the PDA’s over, please tell me we can get food before we go home.”

Other than Combeferre’s cheeks turning slightly red, he still looks as composed as always. However, his voice is embarrassed when he mutters, “Sure, E, whatever satisfies your terrifyingly fast metabolism.”

“Hey, the only thing you have to do every day is sit at the piano and lead your kids through those god-awful warm-ups. Meanwhile, I have to make gestures big enough to evoke _something_ in my students, whether they actually respond or not.”

“Sorry about that. Remind me to close the door before anyone opens their mouth.”

“Actually, let them sing their little hearts out or whatever. We need to get everyone in shape for the showcase. I’m assuming Courf already told you?”

Courfeyrac nods and squeals, “It’s gonna be so great! For a finale, though, the fine arts faculty should combine forces and bring out something big like _West Side Story_.”

Enjolras visibly recoils a bit, “Though I have to admit Bernstein was a composing and conducting genius, the blatant racism is not acceptable. I’m not completely opposed to the musical aspect of it though. We can still do a number, as integrating modern culture with the American classics could be educational.”

Combeferre smiles and voices his thoughts, “I agree. The “Tonight” quintet could be a possibility, as long as we tone down the underlying violence. It’s challenging enough that it’s interesting without being downright terrible to put together. But, to abruptly change the subject, how was your day?”

Roughly an hour after a dinner of authentic Chinese takeout (like he could ever settle for anything less), Enjolras sitting on his bed in his room with a laptop. He has a document with his bucket list opened up, and he scrolls through it, considering each work. _Romeo and Juliet Overture, nah, too cliché. Anything Dvořák? Nope, even more cliché. Other Tchaik stuff? Grand, but not what I'm looking for. Maybe some other time, when there's more time to spare. I’m not even going to consider anything Stravinsky. We don’t have bassoonists nearly good enough for that. Don Juan will make my students think suicidal thoughts. I want a big, influential piece that will blow the audience out of the water._

After a while of perusing through various works, Enjolras settles on Beethoven’s 3rd Symphony. Nicknamed “Eroica”, this glorious work is appropriately named after Napoleon himself. However, upon his ascension to dictatorship and betrayal of Robespierre’s famous words, Beethoven had ripped up the cover page and “undedicated” the symphony. Enjolras nods to himself and metaphorically pats himself on the back for making such a great decision. He doesn’t even hesitate before purchasing the score. _This piece should do. Beethoven was an incredible revolutionary, reforming classical music for the better. It’s going to be a little difficult to pull off in two months, but it should be entirely possible. Now, to the second and significantly less desirable order of business…_

Enjolras searches through the school’s staff directory until he comes across Grantaire’s email. He types out a draft and reads it to make sure his message comes across as polite but assertive. 

_Hello Mr. Grantaire,_

_I understand that I might have been a little aggressive in our interactions, and I do apologize if I have offended you at all. Now, I do not know if you might have heard from the other teachers, but the plan for a showcase has been approved. If you and your students could find it in your best interest to submit a few pieces for an art gallery, I would appreciate it greatly. Of course, this showcase’s purpose is to allow the general public to be exposed to classical music, art, etc. and to inspire an appreciation for what we do._

_Thank you,_  
Mr. Enjolras  
Director of Orchestras 

This time, he _does_ hesitate a little before telling himself, “screw it,” and sending it. At around midnight, Enjolras flicks off the lamp and falls into a deep sleep, the email the last thing on his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the first _real_ chapter.
> 
> Music mentioned in this chapter:  
[ Beethoven's 3rd Symphony "Eroica" ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=InxT4S6wQf4)  
[ "Tonight" Quintet ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MyUV3hIL-G0)  



	3. Renaissance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras is annoyed.

_“Works of art make rules; rules do not make works of art.” - Debussy_

The next week, Enjolras breaks the news to his eager students. Soon, the entire room is buzzing with barely-suppressed excitement, everyone turning to their stand partners and whispering. A firm rap of a baton, though, brings them all back to attention, sitting up straight with their instruments out and ready to play. Enjolras passes out freshly printed sheet music which his students make impatient grabby hands towards. This kind of behavior Enjolras is willing tolerate because it represents their passion for something he agrees with.

A few minutes into sight-reading and stumbling over notes and rhythms sees Enjolras _trying_ to keep _calm_. His knuckles turn whiter and whiter as his grip on the baton shifts. Thankfully, Enjolras is distracted from his temper by the door opening. He rolls his eyes at the audible sigh of relief from his students. Enjolras glances over at the door and automatically regrets everything in his life. He grits his teeth and grinds out, “Mr. Grantaire, is there something you need?”

Enjolras watches in slight pain as Grantaire leans against the doorframe and crosses his arms across his paint-splattered shirt. “Nothing that can’t wait until your class ends. I’m perfectly content to listen to your orchestra in the meantime.”

“Well, you’d be a distraction to my class if you just stood there. Sit in my office or something, instead.”

Enjolras turns back to his stand without checking if Grantaire actually followed his orders. When he looks back up from his score, Enjolras meets multiple questioning stares and snaps, “Ignore him. Let’s start back at the cello entrance.”

Another half hour of slightly better music production and the class is finally over. Thankfully, Jehan conducts the second orchestra, so Enjolras has a period to himself and to figure out what Grantaire needs. He steps into his office, noting that the door is slightly ajar. That’s expected as Grantaire expressed his want to listen to his students. However, he didn’t expect Grantaire to be sitting _on top of his desk, the heathen_ and to be doodling on _Lord have mercy, is that sheet music for Shostakovich?_ Enjolras feels his eye twitch in annoyance before Grantaire smiles a damned smug grin and holds up the _oh thank goodness, it’s just a photocopy_. On it is a caricature of Enjolras yelling at his orchestra, big head and all. Oh yeah, now Enjolras’s entire face must be twitching out of annoyance. He shuts the door with a slam and spits, “Ok, _Mr. Grantaire_, let me know what you need and _please get out of here before I have an aneurysm_.”

Grantaire smirks and drawls, “Hmm, no, that won’t do. Call me R. ‘Mr. Grantaire’ just sounds so stuffy.”

“Likewise. Mr. Enjolras is technically my father, but for the sake of being polite, it’s required.”

“Apollo, then. But yeah, I was gonna talk to you about the showcase.”

“Oh, ok. What do you think?”

“Honestly, it’s not a _terrible_ idea. But I’m not exactly sure how it’ll change people’s opinions on what they already know they like and dislike.”

Enjolras wrinkles his nose and scoffs, “I’m sure what we put together will be able to change their minds, at least a little. Our department’s purpose is to familiarize young artists with classical culture and inspire appreciation in their generation. Surely the showcase would be exciting enough.”

Grantaire raises his hands in mock surrender. “Whatever you say. I had the brilliant idea of getting my students to incorporate pop culture and a touch of modern into recreations of Renaissance era works. That should garner some interest in the cause. But if that’s not good enough for your purist heart, I’ll come up with something else.”

Enjolras huffs indignantly, “I’m not a purist. For the show’s finale, the faculty is performing the quintet from _West Side Story_. So no, somewhat modern influences are not totally frowned upon. And you’re right, that idea is genius.”

“Wow, consider me shocked. Apollo actually acknowledged something of mine and approved of it. Pinch me, I must be dreaming.”

Enjolras raises an eyebrow, and without thinking twice, reaches over and actually pinches Grantaire’s pale wrist. He thinks absentmindedly, _oh, he has nice hands. I wonder if he was ever a musician_. Enjolras mentally kicks himself in the face (he can only do it mentally because he’s nowhere near flexible enough to actually do that) and retracts his hand, bemused. He must have pinched slightly aggressively because Grantaire lets out a yelp and slips off the desk. Enjolras takes that opportunity to flop down onto his chair. “Don’t you have a class to teach?”

As if right on cue, the bell signaling the beginning of the next period rings. Grantaire shrugs and stands up. “My classroom is literally a few strides away. And second period is Advanced Art. My students usually just get to work right away, so if I’m slightly late, nobody really cares.”

Enjolras raises an eyebrow again and looks pointedly at the door. Clearly, Grantaire is better at catching nonverbal hints than spoken ones and starts to open the soundproof door. A few tuning pitches leak into the office, and Enjolras winces at how out of tune some instruments are. He breathes a sigh of relief when Grantaire shuts the door again, but right before he ducks out of sight, Grantaire tosses Enjolras one last wink. Enjolras groans and buries his face in his hands because he has a reputation to maintain! He can’t just let any snarky art teacher get to him like that. Enjolras almost faceplants on his desk before the offensive drawing catches his eye. Now that he’s looking at it carefully, Enjolras notices the intricacy of the sketch. Deliberately drawn lines weave the image of him with a prissy frown and glaring at the viola section. Beside his blown-up head are the tiny words, _“This is a democracy, not a dictatorship!”_

Against his will, Enjolras’s face breaks into a fond smile and he honest-to-God giggles. Thankfully, he’s in the privacy of his office with no one there to witness this side of him. In the corner, there’s a tiny cursive “R” which Enjolras has to squint to see. _I might need glasses._ He flips the paper over, sighs at the first page of his favorite cello concerto, and tapes it to the inside of his desk, right where he can glance at it and maybe, _just maybe_, have a laugh.

During his conference period, Enjolras meets up with two out of the three band directors to discuss symphony orchestra rehearsals. Joly willingly hands over a list of students from their top wind ensemble. Enjolras muses to himself, _what an interesting trio of band directors. Joly, who can’t help but worry over the cleanliness of the woodwind instruments, Bossuet, who has tripped over his own tuba at some point, and Bahorel, whom all his percussion students love. Oh, and they’re all Grantaire’s friends._ “Thank you for the recommendations. I’ll be sure to get parts to you before the first rehearsal.”

Joly smiles and pats Enjolras on the shoulder. “No problem. Let us know if any of our students give you a hard time. I know you have a thing for discipline and all.”

“Duly noted. I appreciate that very much.”

Bossuet pokes Joly and whispers sort of audibly, “Musichetta wants to meet with the two of us about next year’s show. I know it’s a bit early, but we can’t really deny her anything, so we’d better go and speak to her.”

With a final wave to Enjolras, they shuffle out of the orchestra room. He sighs in relief as silence takes over. Not that he has anything against them, don’t get him wrong, it’s just that Enjolras doesn’t know how to make small talk and hold conversations like a normal human being. After teaching four different string orchestras that day, Enjolras rubs his temples to try to relieve the stress. In his office, he opens a recording of the symphony and lets the music flow through the space, calming himself down almost immediately. Jehan steps into the office and sits down wordlessly, nodding to Enjolras in greeting. Soon, the only sounds that could be heard are the music playing from the computer and the sounds of their typing. This is one of the less glamorous aspects of Enjolras’s job, paperwork. Stressful and annoying. However, if emails are the only way to get his students’ parents on board, he’ll shoulder the burden gratefully.

The orchestra directors work for a while before Jehan speaks up. “So, Enjolras, the harp ensemble is going to play at the showcase, right?” 

“Yeah, for sure. It’d be great to put our pedal harps to use, especially for the public. It’ll also get incoming students to maybe choose the instrument when the current harpists graduate.”

Jehan hums in agreement, and the conversation lapses into typing noises once more. The bell indicating seventh period rings, so Jehan gets up again to conduct the last orchestra of the day. Enjolras doesn’t look up from his computer when the door shuts again. Eventually, school gets out, so he locks himself in his office while all the orchestra students rush in to grab their instruments. A few brave souls knock on his door to talk to him, but otherwise, Enjolras is able to avoid the afternoon dash. When he arrives back at the apartment he shares with Combeferre and Courfeyrac at long last, Enjolras just wants to bury his face in his pillow and pass out. Greeting the two of them, he forgoes the rest of his work as well as dinner and proceeds to do just that. Worrying about the showcase can be something for the next day.


	4. Baroque

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras is stressed.

_“To achieve great things, two things are needed; a plan, and not quite enough time.” - Bernstein_

“No, no. Flutes, I need _more_. It’s _Beethoven_ and there’s no flimsy tone production allowed. Brass, you can calm down, though. And this is the last time I’ll repeat it for everyone. _Intonation is key_,” Enjolras growls as he rubs a hand over his face. “Cellos, what have I said about shifting without _portamento_? You’re making me ashamed.”

He can see his students wilt and duck behind their instruments. Enjolras knows what he must look like as many of his colleagues have mentioned his infamous anger. Blue eyes flashing as he glares at his poor students, blonde hair becoming more and more wild as he tugs a hand through it, pale skin flushing as he gradually loses his temper. More often than not, Enjolras tries very hard to keep his horrible temper issues in check, especially in formal settings, but when his students stubbornly refuse to do as he says, there’s no holding back the monster. Enjolras inhales deeply and refuses to meet anybody’s eyes. He looks straight above the French horn section’s heads, lifts his baton again, and calmly says, “Please heed my directions. Let’s try again from the top of the third movement. Oboe, flute, I want a light-hearted tone. Strings, _spiccato_.”

This time, Enjolras feels satisfied with the music that his orchestra brings to life. All the bows are moving in unison, and the brass are producing a full, clean tone. Until a horn cracks. Then, he grits his teeth and wills himself to continue and not stop for the sake of one minor detail. _A minor detail could be the difference between getting support from the people and having them all walk out on us. We need to sound like professionals, not amateurs._ Enjolras schools his face into a neutral expression as he cuts off the end of the third movement. He has to admit, his students are good at what they play, but if they could be more enthusiastic towards their music, Enjolras would be much, _much_ happier.

An hour later, Enjolras dismisses the symphony orchestra rehearsal. He steps off the podium as everyone begins to pack up and waits patiently by his whiteboard. The strings are the first to leave, as they only have to vaguely wipe their instruments, loosen their bows, and pack them up. Woodwind and brass players trickle out soon after as the timpanist covers the drums and pushes them off to the corner of the room. Finally, when everyone has left, Enjolras takes his hair out of the tie and runs a hand through the thick curls. He undoes the top button of his dress shirt and sinks gracelessly against his desk. It’s almost dusk when Enjolras looks out the window. The students may not know it, but he’s plenty grateful that they are willing to spend their Friday afternoons making music when they could be studying or doing other godforsaken activities.

A moment later, Combeferre knocks on the doorframe of Enjolras’s office. Enjolras waves him in and Combeferre opens his mouth, “Your students sound good.”

“Well, you’re entitled to your own opinion. I think we need to rehearse more.”

Combeferre shrugs, “I heard you guys from the choir room. It sounds pretty solid to me.”

Enjolras waves a hand idly through the air. He replies, “There is always room for improvement. They can always sound better. Now, if you don’t mind, can we please obtain one very loud Courfeyrac and get the hell out of here?”

“Sure, let’s do that.”

The two teachers leave the music hallway and head to the black box. When Enjolras pokes his head into the room, Courfeyrac squeals, “ENJY!”

“Hey, Courf. Let’s go?”

“Yeah. Is ’Ferre with you by any chance?” Courfeyrac asks when he steps out. Enjolras coughs and clears his throat. “I’ll get the car started. You can cuddle him when I’m out of hearing range.”

Courfeyrac pouts, “We love you, Enjy.”

“I like you guys too. But that doesn’t mean I have to bear witness to all the gross things you two do. And don’t call me ‘Enjy’.”

“Nope. No chance, Enjy. I reserve the right because in your interactions with anybody else aside from with me and ’Ferre, you are an angry fluffball.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Man, if only you had a mirror in your office. You hair is _untamable_.”

Enjolras pushes Courfeyrac away and exits the fine arts building. Once he reaches their car, Enjolras turns on the heater (because January can be cold jeez) and puts in his earbuds. He likes listening to different pieces at different times: symphonies when he’s stressed, concertos when he’s feeling thoughtful, and piano when he just wants to relax. But not the boring and cliché stuff people generally attribute to “classical music”. None of that “Clair de Lune” or “Für Elise” nonsense. He likes the dissonance of Prokofiev and the passion of Chopin. The first notes of Chopin’s Etude Op. 10 No. 12 “Revolutionary” filter through Enjolras’s earbuds. He closes his eyes and loses himself in his thoughts, _this piece is overplayed… but I still like what it stands for_.

Right when the piece ends, Enjolras opens his eyes to see Courfeyrac and Combeferre already in the backseat, huddled together. He blushes and apologizes, “Sorry, didn’t quite see you two there.”

Combeferre waves it off. “Don’t worry about it, sometimes we all need a break from life. We didn’t want to interrupt.”

Courfeyrac raises his head from Combeferre’s chest. “If you fell asleep and started snoring, however, I’d be obligated to shake you awake.”

“I don’t _snore_.”

In the rearview mirror, Enjolras sees Courfeyrac raise an eyebrow in an _I don’t believe you_ manner. “We’ve literally been living with you since college. And known you from much earlier. ‘Don’t snore’ my ass. It’s cute, though, like a kitten purring.”

“What.”

Combeferre takes the opportunity to speak up, “Hey, so let’s go? I’ll make dinner when we get home.”

Enjolras pulls the car out of the school’s lot and turns the radio on to the public news station. The car lapses to silence save for the muffled voice of the reporter, and a peaceful vibe takes over. That night, Enjolras holes himself up in his room and finishes his work on his laptop. After typing for a while, he stretches out his fingers, popping his knuckles. Enjolras glances around the room, at the shelf with all of his sheet music before he became an orchestra director, at his music stand that’s gradually becoming messier and messier each day, and at the cello that hasn’t left its hard case in many weeks. For a moment, he briefly considers taking it out, but it’s late at night and the others might already be asleep. _Later, maybe. It’ll always be there waiting._

The next morning is thankfully a Saturday, and Enjolras doesn’t have to wake up at the ass-crack of dawn. He wraps his fluffy blanket around himself and shuffles into the kitchen, where Combeferre already has the coffee machine going. “G’morning.”

Combeferre looks up from his phone and smiles at Enjolras’s glorious bedhead. “Morning. Joly just texted me. He’s wondering if we should have a meeting this afternoon to discuss showcase stuff.”

“Hmm, yeah sure. The Corinthe?”

Combeferre hums thoughtfully, “Let me check with the others. Are you in the group chat?”

“I don’t think so? I’m pretty much a Neanderthal when it comes to technology unless it’s for music or work-related purposes.”

“Well, consider this both music and work-related.”

Combeferre hands Enjolras a mug of coffee, and they sit in silence until Courfeyrac makes his dramatic entrance (honestly, he teaches theatre so it’s expected). Enjolras sighs and grips his mug tighter. “It’s way too early in the morning to deal with your crazy antics, Courf.”

“Yeah, well I’m just excited for this afternoon.”

Enjolras drains the rest of his coffee and heads back to his room. _More score-studying. I’m gonna memorize this._ He changes out of his pajamas into a t-shirt and jeans and cleans himself up. Beethoven, Beethoven, Beethoven… The more Enjolras stares at the black dots on his score, the more they seem to float off the page. Around noon, he gives up and closes the book. As he stands up and stretches, his gaze falls on his cello that simply stands there like a silent sentinel. Enjolras muses aloud, “I really need to play something, or I’ll lose my mind. I wonder how bad I must sound after not touching a single instrument for a while. Oh yikes, I hope not terrible after telling my students that I was ashamed of them yesterday…”

Enjolras flips the latches on the political sticker-bedecked case and takes the familiar instrument back into his hands. The door creaks open, and his roommates enter without hesitation. Courfeyrac is the first to see the cello out of its case for the first time in a long time and gleefully voices his optimism. “Hey! Enjy, you _have_ to play something for us!”

Combeferre cuffs Courfeyrac gently over the head and says, “E, you don’t have to if you don’t want to. I’ll take this idiot out of the building if you want your private practice time.”

“If you wouldn’t mind? I must be slightly out of touch and it’d be embarrassing to produce sounds that are less than great.”

Courfeyrac squawks indignantly, “‘_Less than great_’? Yeah right. You haven’t sounded like a dying whale since we were six. You’re good.”

Enjolras sits down at the stand, rifles through some sheets, and waves them off. He grimaces at how out of tune his strings are when the two of them leave. That’s how he spends the next few hours: playing scales, developing his callouses, familiarizing himself with the weight of the instrument again. Thankfully, the apartment is relatively soundproof so Enjolras doesn’t get any complaints after the hours fly by.

When Combeferre and Courfeyrac come back, Enjolras carefully packs up his cello and leaves with them to the Corinthe. He’s feeling significantly calmer now, but there’s no telling what could happen once he has to talk to his colleagues and the ever-insufferable Grantaire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is another music reference:  
[Chopin's "Revolutionary" Etude](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gi5VTBdKbFM)


	5. Classical

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras is thoughtful.

_“Inspiration is a guest that does not willingly visit the lazy.” - Tchaikovsky_

Enjolras groans and faceplants into the café table. “I know that I shouldn’t be complaining, but it’s like they don’t seem to _listen_ to anything I say.”

Jehan pats Enjolras’s shoulder in a comforting manner as the rest of the fine arts department continues to trickle in. “Don’t stress yourself out about it. There’s only so much a brain can hold before it explodes.”

“Pfft, what?”

“Shhh. Don’t question my words. Oh, hey R!”

Enjolras looks up and startles when Grantaire’s eyes meet his. _So blue... shut up, brain._ And he automatically lays his head back down. If Enjolras has the mental capacity to register that Grantaire has really pretty eyes, he definitely has the mental capacity to deal with his students. Soon, the rest of the staff arrives, and Enjolras sits up to start their informal meeting. “So, I’m sure that we all know about the showcase? Good. I’m going to get straight to the point. We need to blow everyone out of the water and show them what should be considered to be true art. This is also beneficial for our programs by recruiting entering students.”

Courfeyrac adds, “So it’s going to span multiple nights, the orchestra on one, my drama kids on another, et cetera, et cetera. Grantaire, you and Feuilly will have pieces for a gallery, right?”

Feuilly replies, “Right. Our students are already starting their projects. Urgh, why do materials have to be so damn expensive?”

Combeferre cuts in, “Thankfully, Principal Valjean has connections to get us resources. We have sponsors who are more than willing to donate money to make this thing possible.”

Enjolras huffs, “If only we didn’t have to rely on those capitalist pigs. Whatever. It’ll be worth it.”

A snort comes from Grantaire’s general direction. “Capitalist pigs, huh? I didn’t realize Apollo had strong opinions outside of pop and rap.”

Courfeyrac plows on, speaking a mile a minute, before Enjolras can open his mouth again. “OKAY. For the last show, we need a finale. The “Tonight” quintet from _West Side Story_ seems to be the best option. Any objections, dissent, negations? No? Great. Enjolras, Jehan, Joly, Bossuet, and Bahorel, play music. Cosette will sing the part of Maria and Marius will sing the part of Tony. Éponine and I both have some singing experience because, yes, we both did musical theatre. Sadly, my voice will be nowhere near as angelic as my dear Combeferre’s, but it’ll be fine. Musichetta, please make some costumes for us. If you don’t mind, R, will you and Feuilly make sets?”

Grantaire rolls his eyes and retorts sarcastically, “Sure. Just add something else to our workload. S’no big deal.”

Enjolras’s head whips around, so he can glare icily at Grantaire. “What’s up with you? You seemed so eager a little more than a week ago, and now you’re pretty much against this? What do you even have in your so-called ‘workload’?”

“Don’t be such an asshole, Apollo. You’re not the only teacher who has to actively contribute. I’m not making my students paint stuff while I sit lazily around. And neither is Feuilly, for that matter. He also teaches tech theatre, remember? And seriously, why would I bring such an idea up when I won’t do anything about it? You’ll see our artwork for display as well.”

Feuilly nods, “Yeah, ok. I’m sure R and I will find some time eventually to construct and paint sets. I need to get back in the booth at some point too.”

Enjolras changes the subject abruptly, “So, I guess I’ll be on violin for this. Joly, clarinet is one of your auxiliaries right? Bossuet, trumpet? And Jehan can play piano, Bahorel, uh, I’m sure you know what you need. So, no native instruments, but I think we can pull it off.”

Bossuet winces, “You drive a hard bargain, Enj. The trumpet part is tough, and I’m sure most of us are somewhat out of practice.”

Bahorel just laughs his booming laugh and slaps Bossuet and Joly on the back. “Speak for yourself, Boss. Maybe you should stop cuddling Joly and ’Chetta so much and start practicing. On the other hand, as a percussionist who has done _West Side Story_ in my youth multiple times, I have literally _all_ the experience. No easy feat, but it’s going to be absolutely fun.”

As the meeting comes to a close, Enjolras lays his head back on the table while Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta migrate to the bar. Combeferre and Courfeyrac drift over to their own table while Jehan, Bahorel, and Feuilly occupy another, talking animatedly about the show. Cosette and Marius are off to some corner, either to act exceedingly awkward for teachers in the same organization, or to make out aggressively, Enjolras will never know. Or care. He glances up to see that Grantaire is hovering, as if reluctant to head over to the bar. Eventually, he just sits down across from Enjolras, hesitant in his actions. There is an obvious wariness to his tone when he mutters, “I’d get something to drink, but as a recovering alcoholic, it might not be the best idea.”

“I mean, I don’t make great company, but you can listen to me whine about how horrible my students are, if you so wish to stay.”

“Horrible?”

Enjolras groans, “Yeah. Never listening to me when I want them to do something. They’re teenagers, for heaven’s sake, not uncomprehending five year-olds. I wish they’d put more enthusiasm in their playing, y’know?”

Grantaire hums thoughtfully, “Sure. It must be hard having to evoke some sort of passion in your students. They’re right on the cusp between being juvenile enough to understand the music and being mature enough to _understand the music_. Y’know what I mean?”

“You seem to be speaking from experience…” Enjolras trails off as if he’s not sure how to continue. Grantaire replies, “I used to take piano lessons before I got my art degree. Now, the only piano I ever cross paths with is the music I put on during studio time.”

“Oh, interesting. Classical?”

“Yeah. Sometimes jazz when I feel like it. And before you start judging too harshly, it’s soothing for my students. Chopin and Liszt are good, but they can get much too exciting sometimes.”

Enjolras pouts into his sleeves and grumbles, “I wasn’t judging. What you said makes sense. I might come across as elitist, but I’m open-minded to anything that has any sort of musicality. Pop is usually dreadfully autotuned and boring, rap outside of _Hamilton_ lacks any sort of meaning, etc. But once in a while, there’s something that catches my attention.”

“Hmm. Ok, Apollo. Good to know.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Well, you didn’t exactly tell me what I _should_ call you. Just something that isn’t ‘Mr. Enjolras’. And Courf calls you ‘Enjy’, which could be decidedly worse.”

“I’ve known him for way too long. There’s no getting him to stop.”

“Alright, Apollo. Now, about your students…”

Enjolras frowns at Grantaire. “And what about them?”

“You’re too mean to them.”

“Excuse me? Are you questioning my methods of teaching?”

Grantaire rolls his eyes, “You’re excused. And no, it’s just anybody their age can be dreadfully insecure, y’know? Sometimes they need a nurturing environment and not a wild-haired righteous deity of some sort raining down insults.”

“Is that a backhanded compliment, Mr. Grantaire?”

“Take it however you will. But I’ve heard enough from my students about a certain angry, blonde orchestra director to gather enough about your personality.”

Enjolras winces and mutters, “That’s probably fair. I can’t just suddenly do a one-eighty on my personality, though. They’ll think I’ve lost my grip and stuff.”

“You don’t need to. Take a figurative chill pill and I don’t know, encourage them too? Insults are never as effective as constructive criticism and compliments.”

“Are you an art teacher or a therapist?”

Grantaire shrugs, “Sometimes, art teachers are therapists. I just like a more zen vibe in my classroom instead of being extremely straight-laced with my students.”

Enjolras considers this for a moment before he almost breaks his nose, slamming his face into the table. “I seriously wish we’d met on better terms. I do apologize for being quite rude to you in the past because you’re honestly not terrible.”

Grantaire laughs, “I can deal with ‘not terrible’ for now. And I’m also sorry for being rude. Huh, maybe our rude personalities clashed when we first met?”

Enjolras lifts his head off the table and without thinking, half-heartedly shoves Grantaire’s shoulder. “Now I feel really bad. Thanks.”

“It’s just you give off some serious Herbert von Karajan, ‘better-than-thou’ vibes when you stride past my classroom every morning.”

“That’s a compliment. I’m taking that as a compliment.”

“Of course you’d love being compared to a great conductor.”

“Of course,” Enjolras echoes. “But seriously, if there’s anything I can do to make it up, just let me know.”

Grantaire visibly considers this for a moment before a grin lights up his face. “Actually, I know exactly what. I hear that you’re a sort of god on the cello. Play something for me sometime.”

Enjolras turns bright red and glares half-heartedly at a neighboring table (mostly to avoid Grantaire’s grin because it’s _blinding_) and hisses, _“Courfeyrac.”_

Grantaire rambles on, as if Enjolras is not dying a few feet away. “I’m at school most of the day, so like, drop by whenever. I’d actually love to hear you play.”

“O-oh, thanks.”

After a while, as the silence becomes borderline awkward, Enjolras grabs Combeferre and Courfeyrac by the scruffs of their necks (not literally) and high-tails it out of the Corinthe. _Oh, now I know that I won’t sleep anytime soon._

And as he predicted, Enjolras tosses and turns that night, definitely overthinking the conversation. His mind processes go something like this: _annoying, I don’t really have to do anything for him, but he’s actually nice, oh dear God, a downward spiral, HE WAS A MUSICIAN, I'm gay..._ So yeah, no sleep for Enjolras. Finally, he stops shifting and simply stares at his ceiling, counting the dots on the plaster. Gradually, Enjolras feels his eyelids grow heavy and eventually slide shut, bringing him into a deep and peaceful sleep.

“AGH!” Enjolras yells on Monday morning when the alarm screams at him. (Note the brilliant and smooth transition/time skip. Thank you.) Without giving it a second thought, Enjolras slumps off his bed and absentmindedly goes through his morning routine, dressing in his work clothes, and mumbling a greeting to Combeferre and Courfeyrac when he grabs his coffee. As he’s about to step out the door, Enjolras turns back last minute and grabs his cello. _Oh well, no time like the present to get this over with._

Enjolras leaves his stuff in his office before walking (read: dragging his feet) to Grantaire’s classroom. It’s an hour before school is technically supposed to start, but through the window, Enjolras can see Grantaire coaching one of his students, giving tips while they sketch lines on a canvas. Enjolras stuffs his hands into the pockets of his dress pants and waits, probably looking very awkward and out-of-place in the hallway. Soon, the door opens and the student walks out, waving to Grantaire and saying, “Thanks, sir. I’ll see you second period!”

“See you, Lucien,” Grantaire waves back, and that’s when Enjolras makes his presence known. Grantaire startles when Enjolras approaches his desk. Enjolras gives him a once-over, noting his street attire that’s inevitably paint-splattered. Technically, faculty are required to wear business casual clothing, but Enjolras supposes an exception could be made for Grantaire. _And, uh, very tight black jeans… SHUT UP, BRAIN._ He coughs once, fidgets nervously for a moment, and jerks his thumb to the door. “Good morning, wanna come?”

Apparently that’s all it takes for Grantaire’s (cute) confused expression to transform into a dazzling grin. “Is today the day that I get to listen to Apollo play? Jesus, I should become a poet instead of an art teacher.”

Enjolras snorts, “Sure. Let’s go.”

The two teachers make their way back to the orchestra room in somewhat of an awkward silence, save for Enjolras’s dress shoes clicking on the tile and the rustle of clothing. Enjolras holds open the door and ushers Grantaire into the empty room before shutting it firmly behind him. _Gotta keep the students out._ He watches in slight amusement as Grantaire’s pretty blue eyes go large at the cello lying nonchalantly on its side. Enjolras walks over to the chair in the corner, picks up his instrument, and mentally shuffles through the repertoire he already has memorized. _Bach. It’s plenty flamboyant and sounds okay._

Grantaire leans against the wall as Enjolras settles the cello between his legs, closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and lets the first notes to the prelude of Bach’s Cello Suite No. 3 ring out. He hopes he doesn’t make any constipated facial expressions that are pretty much inevitable for musicians who get too involved in their music. Soon, his mind wanders from the placement of his fingers on the fingerboard and the movement of his bow. Enjolras doesn’t quite register the fact that he had casually finished playing all six dances in the suite (because he’s just _that_ good) until the last note drifts away and leads to _rapturous applause? Wait, what?_

Enjolras’s eyes snap open and fix on Grantaire, who looks slightly guilty. He shrugs, which is universal for _Sorry? I couldn’t help it_, and gestures to the students who have gathered in a semicircle, some standing and others sitting on the orchestra room floor. Someone shyly pipes up, “You’re really good, Mr. E.”

The entire room seems to hold a nervous breath while they await the rain of anger that is surely to come from Enjolras. He takes note of this and sighs instead, replying, “I’m really not. But you guys can be if you practice and actually listen to me when I’m trying to give genuine advice during class. Speaking of, why are you guys here anyway?”

Grantaire speaks for the kids, “I texted Prouvaire, who apparently sent out a text to tell them all to come. You were too enraptured with your beautiful playing to notice the door opening and closing. Turns out they can be discreet if they’re afraid of you.”

Enjolras flinches and smiles at his students sheepishly. “Sorry, guys. I _can_ be a little scary sometimes.”

Wide-eyed stares greet him as if they couldn’t believe their infamously cold orchestra director had a Disney-worthy change of heart. Enjolras rolls his eyes _fondly_ as some of them start to look back and forth between the two teachers, almost comically. Grantaire heads for the door and disappears, but not before throwing a wink at Enjolras. And as an extremely appropriate response to a slightly less appropriate gesture, Enjolras feels his cheeks heat up. A girl opens her mouth to comment bravely, “Uh, Mr. E, your face is red.”

Enjolras shuts everyone up before they take his “kindness” to heart and start making fun of him. “Ok, ok, that’s enough, Aurore. Discipline is still important. Set up chairs, everyone, so we can begin rehearsal. Since you’re all here so early, why don’t we practice more, hm?”

Enjolras lets his face shift from its heavily neutral expression to a smile, and he snickers a bit at the chorus of groans. Thankfully, none of them seem to be very willing to risk Angry Enjolras, so they all do as he says, setting up their chairs and stands. Enjolras ducks into his office, looks pointedly at Jehan, who smirks and shrugs as if saying, _Sorry, it was all Grantaire’s fault_, and grabs his score.

When he steps onto the podium, there’s significantly less tension in the atmosphere. Everyone has their instruments out and tuned, and when Enjolras raises his baton, they all snap to attention. The music they produce is lovely as well, lacking a stiffness and instead bringing forth a certain fluidity. If Enjolras were a lesser person, he would be reduced to tears from the sheer beauty of the Beethoven. He smiles at his students and continues conducting, getting an appropriate emotional response from them.

Out of the corner of his eye, Enjolras sees Jehan poke his head out of the harp room and flash an enthusiastic thumbs up. When class ends, his students grin at him and say, “Have a nice day, Mr. E” as they walk out the door. Enjolras replies, of course, but he feels much, much lighter than he had ever felt in his few years as a teacher.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does anyone else hate having to add html to everything just for italics?
> 
> Some more music references:  
[Bach's Cello Suite No. 3](https://youtu.be/icx52BLixaw)


	6. Early Romantic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras is awed.

_“Nothing right can be accomplished in art without enthusiasm.” - Schumann_

The rest of the week comes and goes, and Enjolras’s angry temperament comes and goes, never staying for long. Friday arrives along with a feeling of relief in the entire department. As the students have already been notified, rehearsals and practices until the showcase in a little less than a month have multiplied. Enjolras never wanting to listen to “Eroica” ever again might be a gross exaggeration, but sometimes just thinking of Beethoven makes him want to puke. Now, during his conference period, Enjolras slouches in his rolly chair and spins lazy circles, twirling a baton idly in his long fingers. He isn’t quite so much as stressed out as simply exhausted. Playing an instrument can be taxing, but standing for hours on end and waving his arms crazily is even more so.

Without really thinking, Enjolras wanders out of the orchestra room, not before making eye contact with Jehan, who is conducting on the podium, and indicating his intentions through hand gestures. He crosses the hallway to the choir room, which is left annoyingly ajar. _Jesus Christ, Pontmercy, learn how to close the damn door. I don’t want to hear your students singing your stupid warm-ups when I need mine to learn how to match pitch while tuning._ Enjolras slips through the door, _shuts it firmly_, and silently walks to Combeferre’s office. The great thing is that Combeferre only has to teach their mixed choirs as the head director. The treble choirs are headed under Cosette and the tenor-bass ones under Marius.

Enjolras knocks once on the soundproof door and feels the suction when it opens. “Hey, ’Ferre. How’s it going?”

Combeferre looks up and pushes his glasses up his nose. “Dealing with it, I guess. I have a theory class to teach next period, and right now, I can’t even figure out how to explain the difference between an appoggiatura and a suspension. So forget major-minor seventh chords and modulations.”

Enjolras winces, “Urk. I’m glad I finished that monster in college. Jehan has a free period next, maybe talk to him? Anyway, when are we going to rehearse stuff for the finale?”

“After I deal with my chamber choir. Since when were hard consonants so… hard? I legitimately cannot think right now.”

“Yikes. If it makes you feel any better, I have no idea how to make my violinists understand basic bow strokes?”

“That doesn’t relieve _anything_, E. I’m worried for me, I’m worried for you, I’m worried about this _whole damn thing_.”

Sensing the tension rolling off Combeferre in thick waves, Enjolras gestures to the door and says, “Ok, relatable. I’d better get going, but please make sure Marius knows how to close the door.”

“Have fun.”

Enjolras walks back out of the choir room and hesitates in front of the orchestra room. His hand hovers over the handle for a second before he decides, “Ah, whatever. There’s still some time before the period ends.”

Enjolras makes a detour into the art hallways and halts in the space between Grantaire and Feuilly’s classrooms. He considers the decision and knocks on the sculpting classroom’s door. Through the sliver of window, red hair streaked with clay floods Enjolras’s window before Feuilly opens the door and ushers him in. “Nice of you to drop by, Enj. It’s just studio time, so you can hang out here if you like.”

“Thanks, Feu. I don’t get to visit very often, do I? Though, it seems like your class is progressing nicely with their projects.”

“Yeah? Well, everyone’s kinda doing their own thing. Clay still needs to be fired and glazed, but some people still haven’t finished shaping yet. Sadly, classical art was mostly marble and not clay, so we have to make do.”

Enjolras waves it off. “Don’t worry about that. Sometimes a modern take on the classics aren’t necessarily a bad idea.”

Feuilly squints at Enjolras, who feels uncomfortable under such scrutiny. He laughs, “Who changed you, Enj? I don’t see much of that stern, better-than-thou personality under pressed dress shirts and slacks anymore.”

“I didn’t change, what are you talking about?” Enjolras sniffs as a thought comes to mind. “Oh, but how are R’s students’ pieces coming along?”

Feuilly squints and gestures to a door to Enjolras’s left. “His classroom is literally right there, ask him yourself.”

“Y’know, I think I’ll actually take the main entrance. It’s a little weird to appear from practically nowhere.”

That earns him a snort. “Whatever suits you best. Have fun!”

Enjolras mutters to himself, “Why does everyone keep telling me to ‘have fun’?”

He exits Feuilly’s classroom only to find himself in front of Grantaire’s a mere two feet away. He knocks, which gets him an automatic, “Door’s open!” from inside. He gingerly turns the handle, avoiding the paint streaked on it, and steps inside. The acrid scent of acrylics and oil paints bombards Enjolras’s nostrils, and he has to recalibrate for a moment. Enjolras looks around at the students bent over their easels, earbuds in, and working diligently. There’s a huge canvas in the corner, painted blue with something vaguely resembling clouds, drying slowly. And there’s Grantaire, at his desk, who doesn’t seem to notice Enjolras. “So, how’s the stuff coming along?”

Grantaire swiftly turns in his chair, eyes growing huge. “Apollo, kind of you to bless us with your divine presence.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Well, since you asked soooo nicely, nah. Anyway, you can take a look yourself. I’m sure my students would love to show you their projects and give you details about their inspiration, blah blah blah,” Grantaire chirps, sweeping his arm in the general direction of the many easels. “Hey, class, Mr. Enjolras, one of our two lovely orchestra directors for those of you who don’t know, would like to ask you some questions about your art. Let me know if you need help.”

Pink tinges Enjolras’s cheeks at the word “lovely” coming out of Grantaire’s mouth. He certainly isn’t _lovely_ by any means. Only a few days ago, Enjolras had actually started acting like a somewhat decent human being. But before he has the chance to walk over, a boy with floppy blonde hair saunters over. Grantaire shifts his attention over and asks, “What’s up, Gav?”

“Hmm, I need help, R. I can’t seem to get the correct color.”

Enjolras is thoroughly shocked at a student addressing Grantaire so informally. He looks at Grantaire with what must be a questioning expression because the art teacher smiles and explains, “The squirt is Éponine’s little bro. Known him for forever. And now I get to teach him.”

Now that Enjolras takes a closer look, both the student and his sister have similar facial features, and they carry themselves in the same way. Enjolras hesitantly smiles at the kid, receiving a smirk in return that suggests nothing but rebellion. Enjolras simply stands there as Grantaire walks over to Gavroche’s easel. He catches drifts of Grantaire’s advice. “It’s… basic… brown… good!”

If Enjolras stares a little too long, nobody else would be any wiser. _He gestures quite a bit with his hands. And seems to be very good with his students._ Enjolras makes his way over to a random easel with a girl hunched over it. From what Enjolras could see, the artwork looks like a Monet garden, but on the rooftop of an apartment complex. “That’s a great idea.”

The girl looks up and flushes. “Oh thank you, sir. I was thinking about eco-friendly inspirations and thought Mr. R might approve.”

Enjolras’s eyes would be sparkling if he belonged in an animation when he replies, “That is truly brilliant! You have an incredible mindset. But word of advice and I’m sure Mr. Grantaire would agree with me: creativity should not ask others’ approval. If you have an idea that you think should be put down, simply go for it. I’m sure Beethoven or Paganini didn’t become famous composers by waiting for others to check and revise their work.”

Clearly, Enjolras is going on a tangent because Grantaire comes over and taps him on the shoulder. Enjolras stiffens into the touch, but relaxes once Grantaire indicates the time. “Ok, class. We have five minutes to the bell, so I need you guys to put your stuff up. Make sure you wipe the paint off of whatever you can, and art can go on that table to dry.”

Enjolras glances at Grantaire’s paint-splattered clothes and hair. “Wipe the paint off whatever you can? Maybe you should do that to yourself as well.”

“I never thought I’d live to see the day that the strict Mr. Enjolras makes a joke! Oh the gods have blessed us!” Grantaire exclaims while reaching over and grabbing a sheet of paper from his desk. “A humble offering for Apollo.”

When Enjolras takes it, their fingers brush. He stubbornly keeps his head down until he glances up at the clock and curses a little under his breath. Before he can look at what’s on the paper, Enjolras legs it out of the art classroom and back to the orchestra room. In his office, Enjolras carefully places the sheet face-down on a pile of scores on his desk. There, it lays forgotten as he carries on with his day.

The rest of the Friday progresses with Enjolras in much higher spirits. He teaches his classes and sends more emails. All without sparing Grantaire’s gift a second glance. When Enjolras collapses back in his desk chair after the last period, it decides to make an appearance, catching the corner of his peripherals. _Oh yeah. Better take a look?_ Enjolras rolls his chair over and snags the edge of the paper. He flips it over gingerly, half expecting another drawing of him being angry or something. Instead, Enjolras’s breath catches in his throat when his eyes follow the rough pencil lines. It’s a beautiful, _beautiful_ sketch, not a funny caricature with a giant head and a pinched expression. It might be narcissistic for Enjolras to compliment a picture of himself, but on that sheet of paper, he really is portrayed as _beautiful_. He’s frozen in an elegant pose, one arm outstretched to accommodate the bow, his head tilted slightly up with a serene expression on his face, and each individual finger drawn carefully on the neck of the instrument. Even though Enjolras is still in the picture, everything has motion, from his dress pants stretched tight because _yes_, he has to spread his legs to play his cello, to the curly hair flying over one shoulder.

Enjolras grins stupidly at the paper because if he’s not fooling himself, he’s drawn with love. Grantaire clearly is an incredible artist who doesn’t waste any lines and creates each one with purpose. And if Enjolras slumps backwards into his chair with a happy sigh, nobody will ever know. He rights himself immediately and shakes his head, it’s just a sketch for God’s sake. There’s no hidden meaning attached, and Enjolras needs to stop acting like an emotional teenager. He should be focusing on getting his students whipped into shape and spreading the word to the general public instead of cooing at drawings of _himself_ and exhaling air with more sound than necessary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No music references in this chapter... but keep listening to classical music! It's good for the soul.


	7. Late Romantic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras is enraged.

_“As a musician, I tell you that if you were to suppress adultery, fanaticism, crime, evil, the supernatural, there would no longer be the means to write one note.” - Bizet_

“Nope, nope. Never happening.”

Courfeyrac pouts and tugs on Enjolras’s arm. “Enjy, you haaaave to come with us later! It’s Valentine’s Day and the love needs to be spread!”

“The only thing that needs to be spread is word of our showcase that is happening in just a few weeks!”

“Stop stressing so much. It does absolutely nothing for your fair complexion.”

“What happens to my ‘complexion’ is none of your concern, Courf.”

Courfeyrac gasps dramatically (as a theatre teacher, there’s literally no other way for him to do it) and throws himself onto Enjolras’s lap, flashing him puppy eyes. Enjolras grunts under Courfeyrac’s weight (he’s short, but also a grown man) and attempts to push him off in vain. “Ge’ off meh.”

“Not until you agree!” Courfeyrac says gleefully wrapping his arms around Enjolras’s shoulders to steady himself. “Courfeyrac, I know we’ve been best friends for forever, but please. Get off me. This is really uncomfortable.”

Courfeyrac _thankfully_ untangles himself and flops back onto the floor by Enjolras’s chair. “Whoops. Kinda crossed the line there… I’ll leave the lap sitting to R from now on~”

Enjolras practically screeches and tears his hair out. “Courf, WHAT THE HELL?!”

Thank God for soundproof doors. Jehan’s the only one in the orchestra room this early in the morning, but there’s no being too careful. When Courfeyrac exits, Enjolras receives a confused look from Jehan. Enjolras just shakes his head as if trying to convey, _It’s Courfeyrac, don’t ask._

Because it’s Valentine’s Day, Enjolras decides to coop himself up in his office more than he usually would, if only to avoid the couples making out in the hallway and the fluffy, pink _everything_. When Enjolras steps out to use the bathroom, he carefully takes the route that sees the least amount of people. _Actually, deciding to use the bathroom was a horrible idea. I’ll never be able to look Courf and ’Ferre in the eyes without hearing THAT ever again._ Enjolras has a sore throat and is in a decidedly worse mood when he returns to his office, what with running into several noisy couples and having to bark at them to get to class, the damn fools.

He sits forward at his desk and lets his head fall into his hands, utterly defeated. Enjolras only looks up when a student knocks on the door with a large box in her hands. Clearly the expression on his face is enough to make the girl back away and set the box down in front of the door. Wary, Enjolras opens the door and grabs the box. A poof of red glitter rises in Enjolras’s face when he opens it, and he sneezes. “That’s gotta be one of the most adorable Enjolras moments I’ve ever witnessed, not that there are many to go around.”

Somehow, Bahorel had managed to sneak his bulk into Enjolras’s office without him noticing. “Hello, Bahorel. What brings you to my humble abode? Surely, it isn’t to witness me get covered in annoying red glitter and open this mysterious box.”

Bahorel grins and slaps Enjolras on the back. “Nah, but do carry on. I only wanted to know when we’d rehearse stuff, so I can relay information back to Joly and Bossuet and gather the percussion stuff in time.”

Enjolras grimaces as he replies, “Hmm, soon. Maybe next week when things have sort of calmed down. And then once before we actually have to perform. We’re all professionals, so it shouldn’t be too bad.”

“Don’t jinx it for us, E. Anyway, I’m curious, so you should open the box.”

“I have a terrible, _terrible_ feeling that you’re involved in this mischief, somehow,” Enjolras proclaims as he tears through frilly, pink tissue paper. Clearly, Courfeyrac must have been the one to organize this because there’s no one else as dedicated to get all of Enjolras’s students to write all these notes. They’re written on stupid hearts shaped by the horribly cliché upside-down treble clef and bass clef. Enjolras rolls his eyes, but he smiles to himself at some that say sweet things like, _“You’re such a great teacher, Mr. E.”_ or _“We love you, even if you love yelling at us more than you love us.”_

“So, not an entirely mischievous thing?”

Enjolras takes out a whole pile of hearts and raises an eyebrow at Bahorel. “I’ll decide when I finish cleaning the glitter off my desk and out of my hair.”

It’s only then that Enjolras notices a few other items at the bottom of the box. _Looks like my friends were also in on this._ There’s a sparkly red hair clip from Musichetta, probably making a jab at his often unruly hair, a tiny, stuffed bear that Enjolras immediately sets on his desk (probably from Courfeyrac), a teacher appreciation mug with a nutrition label on it that practically screams Joly and his obsessive nature, and many others. Cosette and Marius seem to have finally gotten their shit together and gave him a joint gift of socks with Baroque composers’ faces and hearts printed on it. _Ok, I’ll give them points for creativity. Those, I’ll actually wear some time._

When Enjolras glances from the box, Bahorel’s still standing there with a smug expression. At the very bottom is another unassuming piece of paper. _You’re spoiling me, Grantaire. And making me feel very, very vain._ Of course, it’s another drawing of Enjolras. This time, he actually puts his head on his desk, dying because of the mini cartoon version of him with his nose stuffed in a score while hearts with weird faces float around his head. It’s captioned, _Apollo VS. Eros_, so Enjolras just has to laugh at Grantaire’s cleverness and the reference to the myth. Bahorel looks amused as he waves at Enjolras and leaves the room. After the door is shut firmly, Enjolras makes a sound like a dying whale because Grantaire shouldn’t be this _nice_ to him, even while mocking him through drawings. In the end, he tapes it up next to the caricature and the sketch.

School ends at _last_, but Courfeyrac acts upon his promise of dragging Enjolras out. The Corinthe is decorated to hell and back in the garish pink and red items that haunt Enjolras’s nightmares. Vaguely, he wonders if he’ll actually survive until the end of the day. In the building, all the other fine arts faculty members are already huddled at a large table that looks suspiciously like two smaller tables crushed together. Courfeyrac immediately drops into Combeferre’s lap (oh dear God), and the others greet them happily. Éponine lifts her mug of coffee in greeting and shouts, “Come talk to us, E. I’m sick of having to hang around Courf and Feu all the time.”

_Right_, Enjolras thinks, _Feuilly also teaches tech theatre._ He joins Éponine and Grantaire at their side of the table and orders a cup of coffee for himself. Briefly, he sees Grantaire put his head down after mumbling something about “red” and “sparkly”. Enjolras ignores that and says, “Thanks for the gifts. However unnecessary the glitter was, though.”

Éponine grins wolfishly at Enjolras. “You know you appreciate the glitter. It’s all in your hair now. And don’t thank me, thank Courf for coming up with the ingenious plan and R for donating the glitter. Courfeyrac asked, and Grantaire wordlessly handed over a disgustingly large jar of the stuff. Don’t know, didn’t question it.”

Enjolras nods curtly and turns to the pile of art teacher next to him. Grantaire has a maroon beanie tugged over his unruly, dark hair (probably because it’s February and still pretty cold) and a black jacket over a blue v-neck. Enjolras tugs his gaze away from the tantalizing (wait, what) strip of pale skin exposed and instead, fixes it onto where Grantaire’s head lays on his hands. _That’s… not exactly any better._ “Grantaire, I know I should be extremely annoyed with you for the mess on my desk, but your cartoon’s pretty funny. So I’ll let it slide for now.”

Enjolras proceeds to nonchalantly take a sip from his coffee, pointedly looking away from Grantaire’s (adorable) facial expression. Enjolras scowls, “But seriously, is this holiday actually that important? I feel like I’m going to puke if I ever have to see another heart-shaped balloon ever again. Oh, and Cosette and Marius are being gross at the corner of the table.”

Éponine mutters, “I’ll have to agree with you on that one.”

Enjolras doesn’t ask and continues his tirade. “I just don’t understand modern-day romance, y’know? Like I’ve never gone out on a date in the twenty-five years of my life, never kissed anyone, et cetera, et cetera. Yeah, my personality pretty much repels others, but sometimes it’s their personalities too. It’s just really bothersome if they’re overly annoying or clingy and won’t shove off for the sake of it.”

The sharp sound of a chair scraping against the floor causes everyone at the table to fall silent. Surprisingly, Grantaire stands up and mumbles something that sounds like, “Sorry, guys. I just remembered I had to finish something. Enjoy the rest of the day for me?”

Enjolras frowns because Grantaire isn’t the type of person to prioritize work over pleasure. (That’s Enjolras for heaven’s sake!) Suddenly, ten pairs of eyes latch onto him, and he briefly wonders why before “Oh, _shit_.”

A few months ago, Enjolras would have never attributed himself to the problem, but now, he realizes that someone should really slap a filter over his mouth. Getting so caught up in his rant forced him to say some less than pleasant things, half of which aren’t even true. _Grantaire must have assumed I was talking about him. Sure, he deems it necessary to question everything I say, but he’s nowhere near as annoying as Courfeyrac. And I’ve put up with him for over twenty years._

With hardly another thought, Enjolras escapes the judging stares of everyone else, gets Grantaire’s address from Joly, yells a quick apology, and dashes out the door. He thinks he hears Courfeyrac scream, _“MAKE SURE YOU GUYS KISS AND MAKE UP!”_ behind him, but he shakes his head. _I don’t like Grantaire like that, and I most certainly don’t want to kiss his lovely mouth. R-right???_

It takes Enjolras forever to find Grantaire’s apartment in an obscure area of the city. He follows Joly’s instructions and rings the doorbell. “The door’s open, let yourself in!” Grantaire shouts from somewhere within. Enjolras sighs and follows his voice to what must be a studio. It’s admittedly quite nice, with sheer curtains to let in enough natural light and bins full of art supplies. The room is tidy, which shouldn’t be as much of a shock because at school, Grantaire's always been good about getting his students to clean up after themselves. “Y’know, leaving the door unlocked isn’t always such a good idea. Especially when you randomly let in unwanted strangers.”

Right when the words leave his mouth, Enjolras mentally slaps himself. He’s there to apologize, not to chastise Grantaire’s living habits. Grantaire turns from his painting and faces Enjolras, keeping his eyes downcast and muttering a quick, “Oh. Hey.”

“Er, hi. About what happened at the Corinthe-”

“Don’t worry about it,” spits Grantaire as he immediately goes back to his task. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t know why you even bothered to come, what with me being a pain in the ass and all that.”

Enjolras rubs an exasperated hand over his face. “You’re not a pain in the ass.”

“Hmph. Well that’s not what you said earlier.”

“I didn’t explicitly state that.”

“But you definitely thought it.”

Enjolras scowls at Grantaire’s back. “Oh, so now you know what I’m thinking.”

Grantaire carefully sets his paintbrush down to throw his arms up in the air without accidently making a mess. He glares at Enjolras, which is _definitely_ not attractive. At all. “Obviously. And I _really_ don’t know what you’re doing here.”

“I’m trying to apologize!”

“Yeah? Well, you’re doing a _great_ job.”

Enjolras steps closer. “Yeah. And you’re not exactly helping!”

“That just proves my point! I’m literally the worst person on this planet, so maybe I should just stop pestering you, huh? I bet you even threw the goddamn drawings away!”

Enjolras doesn’t hold back when he yells, “OF COURSE, I DIDN'T THROW ANYTHING AWAY. IF ANYTHING, I'M THE WORST GODDAMN PERSON ON THIS PLANET FOR TAKING ADVANTAGE OF YOUR KIND AND FUNNY PERSONALITY. AND MAYBE IF YOU STOPPED PUTTING EVERYONE ELSE ON A FUCKING PEDESTAL, YOU’D REALIZE HOW GREAT YOU ACTUALLY ARE."

There are literally five inches of space between them, and Enjolras’s face is definitely flushed with anger. In the heat of the moment, they’ve gotten so close that their noses are just barely touching, and he thinks that if he tilts his face down a little more… _OK STOP_. His glare softens to a stare because Grantaire’s blue eyes are… captivating. Enjolras’s train of thought malfunctions when a tongue pokes out and wets those luscious, pink lips. Snapping out of it, Grantaire’s eyes widen and he steps back, nearly crashing into his easel. “S-sorry, I, uh, have to finish this coat before the paint dries. Uh, apology accepted, blah blah blah. You know your way back, right? Bye!”

Enjolras robotically shows himself out and walks briskly back to his place. In the middle of a block, a thought occurs to him. _Wait a moment, the smell of the paint in his studio was definitely not acrylic. And R once told me once that oil dries especially slowly._ Enjolras is now inexplicably sadder because Grantaire had made an excuse to get away from him. _Well, I did just insult him through a backhanded compliment… that doesn’t even make sense, but whatever. It’s fine. If he doesn’t want to be around me, I understand._ Enjolras wants to cry, but instead, he hardens his expression into a stone cold mask. As if to mock him, gray clouds loom over the city, and rain starts to fall. Enjolras makes it back to his apartment half soaked to the bone. Really, all he wants is to wrap himself up in a blanket burrito and sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah, that happened. Kinda cliché, but necessary.
> 
> Not a music reference, but an inspiration:  
[Teacher Appreciation Mug](https://www.amazon.com/Appreciation-Christmas-Boyfriend-Girlfriend-Elementary/dp/B073V49NKZ/ref=asc_df_B073V49NKZ/?tag=hyprod-20&linkCode=df0&hvadid=216513835172&hvpos=1o4&hvnetw=g&hvrand=9975132851171661241&hvpone=&hvptwo=&hvqmt=&hvdev=c&hvdvcmdl=&hvlocint=&hvlocphy=9028099&hvtargid=pla-351447036415&psc=1)  
(It's such a "Joly" gift.)


	8. Modernist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras is awkward.

_“Simplicity is the final achievement. After one has played a vast quantity of notes and more notes, it is simplicity that emerges as the crowning reward of art.” - Chopin_

It’s been one week after Enjolras had reverted back to his emotionless turtle ways. It still stings whenever Grantaire avoids making eye contact in the halls, but for the most part, Enjolras is numb. Unfeeling. He suppresses his emotions in public, only leaking smiles when his students need encouragement. Only being polite during rehearsals.

It’s also two hours after school had dismissed when Enjolras lifts the violin to his shoulder once again. Violin isn’t his primary instrument, but he’s pretty okay at it. Nobody should expect him to suddenly rip out a Paganini Caprice, but Enjolras has spent enough time with the instrument as a requirement for his degree in college. Now, his back hurts, and there’s a rapidly blooming mark under his chin. _I chose cello to avoid this, and now I’m stuck with the inevitable violin hickey. Great. Just great._ Onstage, Combeferre is discussing vocal stuff with Cosette and Marius, Éponine’s practicing her “sexy” dance moves while Courfeyrac tries on the costume that Musichetta provided. It’s quite simple: a red shirt to represent the Sharks, chino pants, and ratty converse.

Underneath the stage, Enjolras sighs for the billionth time, unnecessarily adds more rosin to his bow, and shouts, “Can we begin now? The pit is really making us sweat.”

Courfeyrac leans over the edge and wiggles his eyebrows. “Ooh, steamy. But you’re right. Let’s get this party started!”

“It’s not a party, Courf. We’re suffering down here.”

“Righto! Well, Feuilly’s in the booth, so when the house lights dim, that’s your cue. ’Ferre will join in.”

Enjolras takes a deep breath and makes eye contact (as proper conductorless ensembles do) with the other teachers in the pit with him before he nods at Bossuet to start. The sound of his trumpet echoes in the enclosed space, and everyone else joins in. Enjolras barely notices Combeferre start his bit, being much too focused on his part. The music feels a little empty what with only five voices instead of a vocal ensemble and only five musicians instead of an entire pit orchestra. That’s only Enjolras’s opinion because he’s used to hearing, y’know, a full orchestra with at least fifty members.

Courfeyrac joins in, voice altered with a fake accent. Then Éponine with her "sultry" voice, then Marius, and lastly, Cosette. It ends with the five of them all belting out the last chord, while Bossuet plays his lick. A gesture from Enjolras cuts them all off together. For slugging through, it isn’t the most refined, but the audience would certainly applaud if that was what they were presented with. Enjolras sticks his head out of the pit, briefly registers the gorgeous set-pieces and backdrop, and addresses his colleagues. “Hey, so after today, we don’t get to run through this until an hour before we have to perform it. So we can go for another hour to clean it up, yeah?”

Nods of affirmative. Musichetta flits about onstage with a measuring tape while Cosette pipes up. “Just a second, please. These notes are not kind at all, especially because I actually have to project instead of blend.”

Marius agrees, “Yeah, sorry. I’m just… gonna go over to that corner and drink water…”

He dashes offstage when Enjolras fixes him with a steady glare. “Actually, never mind. Let’s take five before we go again.”

Enjolras is the last to leave the pit, being situated at the side opposite the entrance. He practically darts up the stairs leading out of the pit and sighs in relief at the fresh air that hits him in the face. But unfortunately, fresh air isn’t the only thing that hits him in the face. “Owww…”

Enjolras was upright a few seconds ago, but now his face is pressed firmly against the soft material of a _green hoodie with paint streaks? Great, just my damn luck._ Under his cheek, a groan vibrates through the _oh, wow, really firm chest_. “Apollo, I know my body is a great pillow and all, but my ass hurts like hell.”

Enjolras scrambles to get up, cheeks flushing. He reaches out a hand and tugs Grantaire off the floor as well, underestimating his strength when the two of them end up face-to-face for the second time in a week. “Your face is really quite pretty, but we’ve _got_ to stop ending up like this,” Grantaire quips. _Well, since R’s joking with me right now… he can’t hate my company_ that _much, right?_ Grantaire looks up at him and raises an arched eyebrow. “Uhh, you can let go now.”

Enjolras drops Grantaire’s hand as if it’s on fire. His face is on fire. He looks around, thankfully seeing nobody else in the auditorium. “Right, sorry. I was just, uh, excited to leave that muggy hole. Does Bahorel really have to sweat that much?”

To Enjolras’s great relief, Grantaire’s face breaks into a grin as he laughs. _Maybe he_ can _tolerate my presence after all. Thank Jesus._ Grantaire chokes out between giggles, “Yeah… all through… our teenage years… and college… oh my God… drumline…”

“That… explains things. Sort of.”

Enjolras stares dumbly as Grantaire jerks a thumb toward the stage. “Well, I just came to check to make sure nobody falls off the balcony, but it seems like everything’s ok. Make sure the others are careful with the backdrop for me? I don’t want to have to paint another one after someone tears through it. So, uh, since I’m not needed here anymore, I’ll just skedaddle and finish my piece.”

He points awkward finger guns at Enjolras and dashes out of the auditorium. Enjolras watches, bemused, at the disappearing green hoodie. Right when Grantaire leaves, everyone else comes back. Courfeyrac wiggles his eyebrows, asking, “Was that R I just saw? Coming out of the auditorium?”

“Yeah. He came by to remind you guys not to fall off the balcony and make a hole through the painstakingly painted backdrop. Especially you, Courf, I know your enthusiastic habits.”

Courfeyrac sticks his tongue out at Enjolras, who’s wearing a deadpan. “Meanie.”

“Child.”

“Old man.”

“I’m younger than you.”

“Urk. Don't remind me! I’m getting older and older every day!” Courfeyrac gasps as he falls back into Combeferre’s arms, a hand pressed to his forehead. Combeferre doesn’t even look surprised as he stands his ground against Courfeyrac’s weight and promptly drops him. Courfeyrac screams as he crumples into a pile on the stage. “AHH! Betrayed by my own boyfriend! I’m wounded, ’Ferre, Enjy!”

Enjolras levels a hard stare at him. “Save the dramatics for your students. Joly, Bossuet, Bahorel, and Jehan. Let’s get back into that hellhole.”

The four of them give Enjolras a mock salute and follow him back into the pit. Enjolras grimaces at the thought of having to suffer another hour in the air conditioner-less space. Thankfully, no one slips up in that last hour, so they leave, content and satisfied. Enjolras takes a detour to stow his violin back into the orchestra room and locks up. When he makes the trek back to the auditorium entrance, he sees a faint light still coming from one of the classrooms. _Grantaire’s. Actually, I should really not disturb him. I’ll keep my distance to be safe. He’s probably busy, anyway._

Back in the comfort of his own home and sitting on his comfy bed, Enjolras types away at his computer, sending emails out to the public to get people to show up if they happen to have any nights free. He shuts his laptop, slips down into the covers, nuzzles his pillow, thinks about Grantaire’s chest, abruptly snaps his eyes open again, turns bright red, and groans. _Yeah, it’s been a long day. I must be hallucinating now._ Enjolras shoves his face into the fluffy pillow and falls asleep, due to sheer force of will.

For the next week, everyone seems to be in a state of limbo, teachers and students alike. Nobody’s really improving and nobody’s really getting worse. Enjolras knows that his orchestra can be better, but no one really seems to want to do anything about it. It’s the week before the showcase, so it’s understandable, but they just need one last _push_. Enjolras isn’t quite sure what he should do, so he voices these thoughts in the orchestra office during his lunch period with Jehan and Musichetta. “I want them to finish strong, but I also feel like everyone will just snap back to square one. Y’know what I mean?”

Musichetta hums in agreement. “It’s like when I try to get the guard to actually catch their sabres for the last competition during marching season. The show always ends up fine, though, so I wouldn’t worry too much.”

Jehan’s soft voice interrupts, “I don’t know if you ever notice, Enj, but sometimes I make my orchestras meditate with me. It helps center everyone, and the sound they produce is almost always better than it was prior to meditation.”

Enjolras hums thoughtfully, “Hmm, can’t really say I'm the one to do that, but maybe you can take over for me tomorrow?”

“It’d be my pleasure.”

Musichetta smiles at the two of them and stands up. “Well, it’s been great hanging out with the two of you, but I feel like you guys need to have some director bonding time. Besides,” she says as she throws a saucy wink, “Joly and Bossuet are waiting for me~”

Enjolras wrinkles his nose. “Oh Jesus, spare us the details. See you.”

Musichetta blows Enjolras and Jehan kisses, and the two of them feign dodging them while laughing. Then she leaves Enjolras and Jehan alone in the office. “So, Jehan, I really have no idea how to go on.”

“Just think of all the good things in life: cello, your friends, teaching, your students, R…”

“Yeah, ok-wait, what?”

“Oh, sorry. My bad. Forget that last thing I said,” Jehan shrugs innocently, shooting Enjolras an apologetic smile. “Didn’t realize you guys weren’t a couple. Yet.”

Enjolras sputters and nearly chokes on the mouthful of water he had just tipped back. “C-couple? WHAT!”

Jehan flaps a hand carelessly at Enjolras. “Don’t worry about it. Everything will be alright once you join us tomorrow morning for meditation.”

“Ha. Funny. Not a chance.”

Jehan smiles innocently and says in a saccharine voice, “Oh, dear Enjolras, you _will_ relax.”

Enjolras flinches at Jehan’s tone because that was _not_ what he expected from the normally soft-spoken man. “Alright, alright. I’ll… meditate.”

“Good. Now the period is almost over, so I’ll lock myself back in the harp room.”

“Oh ok. Bye,” Enjolras provides awkwardly as Jehan closes the door behind him. He’s still in a slump for the rest of the day, not really feeling any motivation to teach. Nonetheless, Enjolras summons up the last of his willpower and forces his way through. Notes blur together, but he stares at them until they separate. When Enjolras meets up with Courfeyrac and Combeferre at the end of the day, both of them also seem to be in a similar state. “I’m trying _so hard_ to get them to just let the words flow instead of conversing as if they’re reading from a script. It sounds so unrefined when they sound so _fake_.”

Courfeyrac lays his head dejectedly on Combeferre’s shoulder. Combeferre reaches up and pats his wild curls. “Hmm, yeah. It’s really that bad, isn’t it. This state of ‘in-between’ that’s unavoidable.”

Courfeyrac wails, “I just want the showcase to be goooood!”

Enjolras sighs, “And it will be. We just need to hold on for a few more days.”

The next day, Enjolras begrudgingly joins his top orchestra and Jehan in meditation. He ignores the questioning stares of his students and sits down behind the bassists. At the podium, Jehan smiles and says, “Well, I’m sure you’ve all noticed, so I’ll just get straight to the point. It’s that time when you just want to get the showcase over with.”

A few murmurs of agreement rise from his audience and Enjolras pouts slightly because the last thing he wants is for his students to get _sick_ of the music he's advocating for. Jehan continues, “So, no instruments, no playing, just meditating. We’re going to relax, whether you like it or not.”

He throws a pointed stare at Enjolras, who turns his head to the side. “Now, breathe in for four counts… breathe out for four counts…”

Enjolras follows along for the rest of the period, just listening to Jehan’s soothing voice. _This_ is _nice. But there’s so much to anticipate: perfecting everything, spreading the word, typing programs, the actual showcase… BREATHE, ENJOLRAS, BREATHE._

The rest of the day passes and he’s significantly calmer than before. Jehan grins smugly at Enjolras, mouthing an _I told you so_ as he all but skips down the hallway. “Why are all my colleagues _so damn cheeky?_” Enjolras asks aloud in the middle of the empty music hall. Only, the hall isn’t nearly as empty as he originally thought because he gets a response. “Well, Apollo, you’d be surprised. It’s like poking a cat, y’know? One really shouldn’t, but it’s just so tempting to get under your skin. Especially when you’re looking _so cheerful and sunshiny_.”

“Your sarcasm is not appreciated, Grantaire,” Enjolras says almost _affectionately? What?_ He turns up his nose in mock haughtiness and sniffs, “They’re just taking my kindness for granted.”

At the end of the hallway, Grantaire rolls his eyes, and a corner of his mouth lifts. “I, for one, know that you can be nice under that ‘heartless conductor’ disposition. Also, uh, can we just forget about what went down on Valentine’s Day? So I don’t have to wallow in a pit of despair and embarrassment?”

Enjolras winces, “Right. Err, yeah sure. So, with the showcase less than a week away, we need to set up and stuff.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah, I hope all of you got second-hand embarrassment.
> 
> Sadly, there aren't any more music references for the rest of this story, so I'll have to trust you guys to find some cool stuff on your own.


	9. Post-Modernist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras is proud.

_“It is a mistake to think that the practice of my art has become easy to me.” - Mozart_

Enjolras inhales and exhales and runs frantic fingers through his hair, making it frizz out more than normal. “Let’s start at the top again. We _can_ sound brilliant. Just put your hearts to it.”

It’s the first day of showcase week, so tensions are running high at Musain Academy. Tonight, the orchestra performs, so Enjolras tries to get in one last rehearsal. After school, all the members of the orchestra hole up in the auditorium to run through all four movements of Beethoven’s 3rd Symphony. “Bassoons, stop sounding like you need the restroom! Violas, _play in tune_! Timpani, pull the sound _out_ of the drum!”

Much too soon for Enjolras’s liking, their time is up. The students hastily put their instruments down and rush to the exit. Enjolras takes his time soaking up the bright stage lights, thinking, _Wow, I’m either going to die making a fool of myself tonight or I’m going to die from skin cancer caused by these lights._ He then walks offstage and into the faculty bathroom to change. Enjolras reemerges wearing a standard black tuxedo (with tails because he’s extra like that) and a black dress shirt. _I feel like I’m going to a funeral… probably my own, if I'm being completely honest._ Enjolras ties his hair neatly into a ponytail to prevent it from flying everywhere. He marches out of the bathroom in a flurry of confidence, feeling a little more comfortable in his formal clothing.

Thirty minutes, some very deep breaths, and the cacophonous sound of instruments being tuned and warmed up later, the stage is occupied again and the house lights are dimmed. After the concertmaster motions for the oboist to tune the orchestra, she takes a seat, and Enjolras strides to the podium. He bows to the audience’s applause, and when he looks out at the house, Enjolras is pleasantly surprised to see a full house. _Looks like our cause might be for something after all… _

Enjolras raises his baton, makes eye contact with his musicians, and cues the first two E-flat major chords. It seems like no one breathes in the auditorium until he motions for the next measure, and the cellos enter. Enjolras closes his eyes to try to hear the emotion his students embed in their playing. It’s there, subtly, in the strings when they express dynamics and in the winds through their lilting melodies. His students are all extremely responsive to his motions, and they are with the baton and each other almost exactly. Enjolras opens his eyes again to end the first movement. Unfortunately, and much to Enjolras’s chagrin, some fool in the audience claps while the baton is still up. _And_ that _is why we need the general public to be educated._

The rest of the piece goes smoothly, with only a few notes that fall flat. It’s to be expected, and Enjolras is beyond proud of his students, especially when the audience applauds and gives them a standing ovation. He gestures for the brass and the timpanist to stand, then the woodwinds, and finally the strings. Enjolras turns around on the podium, and bows. He leaves the stage, and his students sit down, only for the applause to continue. So Enjolras comes back and the clapping escalates again.

Someone in the back whistles, capturing his attention. Enjolras has to fight against the urge to roll his eyes at his colleagues standing nonchalantly in the last row near the booth. Courfeyrac is still whooping wildly while Combeferre just looks embarrassed by his partner. Jehan is there, smiling like he’s as proud of Enjolras as he is of their students. Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta are clapping with equal fervor, and Bahorel shakes his head in amusement at his fellow band directors. Cosette hugs Marius tightly while Éponine and Feuilly join Courfeyrac in his cheering.

Enjolras’s gaze shifts slightly to the right, and even through the dim house lights and bright stage lights, he’s able to locate Grantaire’s soft, blue eyes. Enjolras tilts his chin up slightly to acknowledge Grantaire’s presence, and maybe the lights are blinding him, but Enjolras thinks he sees Grantaire mouth, _Brilliant, Apollo_.

Blaming his flushing cheeks on the exertion and the heat radiating off the stage, Enjolras ushers his students offstage when the house lights go back up. When the auditorium empties, he comes back out of the wings to meet up with his friends. Courfeyrac is the first to attack him with a flying hug, brown curls getting stuck in Enjolras’s mouth. He squeals, “Soooo good! I’m sure you changed people’s hearts with that _incredible performance!_”

Enjolras flinches, “Ow, Courf. Right in my ear… but I do appreciate all of you guys for coming.”

Bahorel laughs his booming laugh. “Of course we came. What kind of fine arts teachers would we be if we didn’t support each other? Besides, you’re our friend, right, R?”

Grantaire, seemingly staring off into space, returns at the mention of his name. “Hmm, sorry what? Yeah, friends… yeah.”

Enjolras, sensing some sort of awkwardness, swiftly dispels the atmosphere by ushering all of them out, words tumbling out of his mouth. He’s usually much more eloquent than this, but the sentence ends up getting mushed together while he tries his best to shoo them out. “Cool, there are food things outside, please take food. Thanksforcomingyouguys!”

About another hour later, the fine arts building is finally cleared, save for the group of eleven teachers sitting in a circle on the floor, for some odd reason. In an unspoken agreement, everyone stands up all at once and disperse. Enjolras, still in his tux, walks amidst all the art displays in the building. He didn’t have time to properly admire each one earlier in his time crunch, so he’s taking the leisurely time to examine each one. In the middle of the hallway is Feuilly’s sculpture, which seems to be a cartoon cat from some random app in a pose similar to that one discus statue. _It’s… interesting, I guess._ Enjolras continues, spotting paintings he recognizes from his various classroom excursions, all framed and presented well. He smiles at the Monet rooftop garden, which looks incredible as a finished piece.

Suddenly, the corner of a gilded, golden frame catches Enjolras’s eye. It’s obviously a large painting, as the corner is at eye-level in order to fit the wall. So, Enjolras looks _up_, and _oh my God. That… I love him._

Suffice to say, his jaw practically hits the floor. Enjolras, even at his solid six feet of height, has to step back in order to see the painting in all its glory. He remembers the canvas back in the art classroom and briefly connects it to all the drawings he has taped to his desk. Only one person creates art like that, and only one person would paint something so bold. Enjolras doesn’t know how long he stares at the artwork, but days don’t seem long enough to take in everything in the scene that looks so lifelike. Enjolras barely hears footsteps through his awe until Grantaire’s voice interrupts his thoughts. “I… I didn’t actually mean to submit that one. But your reaction is definitely worth questioning my decision.”

Enjolras turns on one dress shoe heel and openly gapes at Grantaire’s abashed expression. “You’re kidding.”

“I really don’t know what I’d be kidding about, but no.”

“You’re telling me, you painted a scale artwork based off of Delacroix and _didn’t mean to display it?_”

Grantaire sighs, “Apollo, you’re missing the point here. If it were just a plain old recreation of _Liberty Leading the People_, putting it up would be perfectly fine. But it’s _you_ who’s the subject of it. _You and your stupid face literally inspired me to do this._ And we weren’t exactly on the best of terms when I had finished.”

Enjolras steps closer so he can properly stare straight into Grantaire’s eyes when he speaks. (Now, why does this feel familiar?) On a split-second’s decision, he works up the courage to laugh gently and ask, “Oh? ‘Me and my stupid face?’ Last time I checked you called it ‘pretty’. Don’t be so contradictory, R.”

Grantaire gulps audibly. “Y-you’re still missing the point. There’s literally _a giant-ass portrait of you in the building that’s open to the public_. And you’re just accepting that? And completely ignoring the fact that you could be yelling at me for putting it up without your permission, blah blah blah, in favor of, ahem, _teasing me?_”

Enjolras smiles slightly, trying to get his own point across for the last time. “Yes, and? It’s beautiful… that just sounded incredibly narcissistic. Anyway, why would I be yelling at you when I could be doing much, _much_ better things with my mouth?”

He doesn’t give Grantaire nearly enough time to turn his words over in his head and doesn’t hesitate in reaching an arm to wrap around Grantaire’s waist, drawing him closer until there’s less than one measly inch between them. Enjolras smiles softly as Grantaire’s hyacinth-blue eyes widen in surprise. Finally, it seems like Grantaire’s mind has caught up when he exhales a tiny breath and tilts his head up while Enjolras leans down. Enjolras thinks in the back of his mind, _I wonder when everyone else left_, as he captures Grantaire’s mouth in a sweet kiss. Enjolras feels long, pianist fingers tangle into his hair and Grantaire’s lips part under his own. Feeling especially motivated, Enjolras eases Grantaire up against the wall until his head is just below the bottom edge of the frame. Grantaire’s thighs shift to straddle Enjolras’s hips, and the only thing between the two of them is the thin material of Enjolras’s dress shirt and Grantaire’s t-shirt. It’s everything, _perfect_, in Enjolras’s mind as they’re kissing in the empty hallway in front of the life-size Delacroix painting of Enjolras in his formal suit and holding his baton, leading his orchestra beneath him.

They part, breathing heavily as Enjolras rests his forehead against Grantaire’s. He opens his eyes just in time to see Grantaire’s pink cheeks and swollen lips. “You look lovely.”

Grantaire flushes deeper and laughs desperately. “I think we both need to explain a few things before you can say stuff like this and reduce me to a puddle of art teacher goo.”

Enjolras fully _grins_ at Grantaire, not knowing his face is capable of such an expression. “Well, I know it must be sudden, but I’m pretty sure I’ve been in denial since that day you interrupted me in the middle of class. _The gall, honestly._ And then you doodled that stupid caricature and wiggled your insufferable person into my life. Absolutely no right making me fall a little deeper into your gorgeous eyes and funny personality every time we pass each other in the halls. So, yeah, maybe I’m falling in love with you.”

Apparently, the only logical thing Grantaire could do is bury his face into Enjolras’s black shirt. Enjolras glances down with a fond look in his eyes and hears Grantaire mumble, “I’ve literally been in love with you the day this school opened. When you stormed into the fine arts building with that one trademark glare, an angry man of beautiful blonde hair and features sculpted from marble. And I thought, _‘He’ll change the world with his music, one concert at a time.’_ Then you yelled at me that one day, and I made it my life goal to selfishly have your attention, one way or another. Then miraculously, you not only scolded me, but you also played your cello for me! What! I never once thought that you would do anything for _me_ of all people, what with the way you looked at me like I didn't deserve to share the same hallways as you. But you dared, so boldly, to track me down and compliment me like I'm worth something in the world while insulting me _the entire time_. In fact, I must still be dreaming because I’d never imagined that you would have the audacity to return my feelings.”

Enjolras drops a kiss into Grantaire’s dark curls and the two of them stay there in the middle of the hallway, embracing silently. Eventually, they migrate over to Enjolras’s office, lazily exchanging words and kisses until midnight. The unfortunate custodian shoos the two of them out of the school, so the two of them step outside. In front of the entrance, Enjolras leans in close and asks, “So, did you know that there happens to be a play of some adequacy taking place here tomorrow night? I’d be delighted if you could accompany me, R.”

Grantaire grins up at Enjolras and pretends to scroll through his phone calendar. “Hmm, I don’t know. Apparently I’m going on a date with some orchestra director or whatever. Have you met him, Apollo? Tall, has a hot temper, but also hot as hell, and plays cello like a god of music, but hates the nickname ‘Apollo’?”

Enjolras groans and buries his rapidly heating face into his hands. “Oh my God. I despise you so much.”

“Nah, you love me.”

“Unfortunately.”

“I am _wounded!_ I’m very lovable.”

“Yeah,” Enjolras concedes, pressing his lips to Grantaire’s cheek. “But would it hurt to call me by my actual name?”

“Yes, _Enjolras_. It hurts to have to give up the nickname that I'd so thoughtfully attached to you.”

Enjolras has to recalibrate for a moment after hearing the syllables of his name being produced by Grantaire’s lovely voice. “Oh, Jesus Christ.”

“It’s ‘Grantaire’, actually, but yes?” Grantaire blinks innocently up at him. Enjolras arches an eyebrow and reluctantly says, “I should probably get going now so Courf and ’Ferre don’t worry, but I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

Enjolras winks and adds, “And hopefully in a suit,” right before he leaves a stunned Grantaire in front of the school. Once Enjolras returns home, Courfeyrac bombards him with questions until he can’t even breathe. “Yes, yes, no, yes, and yes. Now that your interrogation in over, it’s your turn to be stressed.”

Courfeyrac laughs and pats Enjolras’s head. “Silly, Enjy. Only you get stressed. It’s entirely out of my hands now!”

“Okay. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight!”

The next morning, Enjolras shows up in a black suit, as promised. It’s accessorized with a tasteful red pocket square that gets many questioning looks from his students. He’s always dressed well, but there seems to be something else that they can’t quite put a finger on. Enjolras only brushes them off with a miniscule smile that definitely hints at some sort of happiness or excitement. He gives them a free period after such an inspiring performance the night before, which raises slight suspicions in them. He leaves his office door cracked open, and sure enough someone whispers just loud enough, _“So, I’m sure that Mr. E has a hot date or something.”_

_“Yeah, but who is it? Who’s known our hard-headed teacher this entire time?”_

_“And who’s actually known him through his scary phase?”_

_“Wait, wait. I have a theory…”_

The hushed conversation trails off, and Enjolras leans back in his seat, smug. _Oh if only they knew. Their beloved art teacher is a hot date, indeed._ The bell rings, and everyone files out of the door, throwing backwards glances at Enjolras who’s innocently standing there, bidding them all a good day. Not nearly soon enough, school gets out, and he walks toward the art hall. What Enjolras doesn’t foresee is Grantaire standing in the doorway of his classroom in his own sleek clothing. He takes a moment to marvel over the snug fit of the forest green shirt with the top buttons undone, all tucked neatly into black slacks and a brown belt. Enjolras tears his gaze away from Grantaire’s thighs and returns his eyes to Grantaire’s face. They’re simply staring at each other now, blue eyes lost in the other’s pair. Enjolras breaks the silence by clearing his throat. “You clean up nicely. Let’s get food before Courfeyrac gets on our asses for not being ‘on time’. And by that, I mean ‘early’.”

With that, Enjolras holds out a hand and presses their palms together, fingers interlacing as if they’d done this a million times. The school is empty save for a few random teachers and staff members, and they all smile at Enjolras and Grantaire like they expected this from day one. Enjolras tugs Grantaire to his chest, who exclaims, “Holy crap! Don’t do that to my poor, unsuspecting soul! I could die from the pure, concentrated fluffiness of your personality, Enjolras!”

Enjolras buries his grin in Grantaire’s shoulder and wraps his arms tightly around Grantaire’s waist. "Well, you could say that Apollo admitted defeat to Eros at last. Convinced by your offerings and kisses, of course.”

Grantaire returns the hug and murmurs softly, “As if you could settle for anything less.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They're so cute. And beautiful. And cute. Lovely human beans. They deserve all the cheesiness in the world.


	10. Epilogue

_“Music embodies feeling without forcing it to contend and combine with thoughts, as it is forced in most arts and especially the art of words.” - Liszt_

For anyone who’s wondering what happened to the rest of the showcase, everything went absolutely perfectly. Enjolras and Grantaire were sappy and paid more attention to each other than they did to _Twelfth Night_, much to Courfeyrac’s pleasure and displeasure. Combeferre’s choir performed splendidly, as did the harp ensemble, and the faculty themselves. “Tonight” is sure to be stuck in the heads of everyone who lives in a twenty mile radius from Musain Academy for an infinite amount of time.

Let’s fast forward roughly four and a half years. Camera, zoom into Mr. Enjolras’s office again. It’s changed drastically from the stiff atmosphere composed of bookshelves overflowing with scores and sheets to a friendlier one. There are drawings taped to every inch of the wall, some overlapping, and some barely holding on. These accumulated over the years, each graduating senior donating sketches varying in degrees of artistry. Of course, there are special ones, slightly more private ones carefully hanging onto Enjolras’s desk. The caricature, the cello portrait, the cartoon, and many others gifted dearly by our favorite Mr. Grantaire once he saw the first three taped lovingly to the desk. (He had laughed in Enjolras’s face for a minute straight until Enjolras plastered a sticky note to Grantaire’s forehead. It was a stick figure drawing of the two of them, Enjolras kneeling with a ring, and Grantaire with his “hands” up to his mouth.)

Grantaire now keeps the sticky note tucked safely in his wallet and wears a shiny band matching Enjolras’s own. In fact, they’re both standing in Enjolras’s office at the moment. Oh? And they’re leaning in... give them some privacy, won’t you?

_Fin_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, that's the end. It's sappy, but cute.  
I love reading comments by the way...
> 
> Okay and some more info about music and whatnot:   
I made Grantaire a former pianist because he just exuded those vibes. Don’t question it. Enjolras knows how to play pretty much every instrument in a string orchestra because he’s extra like that. Jehan and Combeferre teach music theory because I was inspired by my own school.  
A bruise does form from playing a shoulder stringed instrument for too long. It’s called “fiddler’s neck”, “violin hickey”, and/or “viola love bite”. (I would know. I have one. And it looks like a goddamned hickey.)  
“Eroica” was originally composed as a dedication to Napoleon because it means “Heroic” and all that. But once Napoleon rose to dictatorship, Beethoven tore up the cover page with the dedication. (Incredible, I know.)  
Leonard Bernstein was a great composer/conductor and Herbert von Karajan was also a great conductor. May they rest in peace. (_West Side Story_ and _Fancy Free_ are my favorite Bernstein works. I highly recommend watching the three dance variations from that last one. They’re hilarious.)  
Chopin actually wrote that etude in regard to the French Revolution, so I obviously saw fit to include it. A lot of pianists play it which kinda lowered my opinion of the piece but it’s still amazing.


End file.
